Celestial Bodies Suite
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: They speak of a door closing and a window opening. They sing of divine intervention. They pronounce that invisible strings connect us all and gravity pulls at our feet. They declare we are all separated by six degrees. They say a lot of things. Johnlock/Slash Rated M. Now complete.
1. 1 Overture - Celestial

**A/N: I came up with this idea while in conversations with my friend Ennui Enigma. We had a great and intriguing conversation about interconnectedness and relationships amongst other things. **

**If you are a regular follower you will recognize three chapters as ones I have already published. I've included them because they are all part of the whole. If you have already read them you can skip them. You may want to reread them to see how they connect. Fingers crossed as to whether this actually works.**

**The stories are in no particular chronological order and the setting may be anywhere along the relationship of the two men. While I have some of it planned on paper and in my head I write more from the gut and let the story take me where it wants to go. Reviews are actually very helpful in this area and often inspire me. You would be surprised what one little comment can do.**

**I always try to thank my readers/reviewers/followers/favouriters as I wouldn't be here without you – I will try very hard to keep track and thank you at the end of this craziness.**

**There will be slash – you have been warned. And probably the occasional swear word. I have a bad personal habit of swearing and it creeps in – especially when I get emotional.**

**As usual I do not own anything but the order of the words and the computer I am writing this on, but wish I did. I would have you all over for tea if this were mine.**

Overture – Celestial

They speak of a door closing and a window opening. They sing of divine intervention. They pronounce that invisible strings connect us all and gravity pulls at our feet. They declare we are all separated by six degrees.

They say a lot of things.

Was it fate or was it connections or was it both the day that two damaged men met and together made a whole healed entity? If John had not chosen to walk through the park that day in the hopes of clearing away a few ghosts, if he had not met an old friend and if that old friend had not chosen to mention a potential flatmate would he have still met Sherlock? Possibly.

Sherlock had just reacquainted himself with a former client who had a flat for rent. It worked in his favour, having just been evicted from his last residence. He needed a flatmate to help pay the rent, because Mycroft was teaching him a lesson about the abuse of money and his trust fund. Again. He was not an easy person to live with, nor would he tolerate idiots. That left very few people who would put up with him or he them.

If Mike had been five minutes later would Sherlock have still been there or if not would John have bothered to stick around or meet him another time? Who knows.

It did happen that way and they did meet. And the untamed breeze that blew through John's life when that particular window opened did more than ruffle curtains and stir a few loose papers.

It began with the overture, one moving forward to the approach, proposing an ideal solution, the other curious and intrigued that it was a given, that he would naturally accept the offer, he was expected to accept the offer.

It was only the precursor to larger events.

There was an instant spark of something. Not love or even lust.

Not at first.

Just two misfits interconnecting. Two puzzle pieces fitting together. Two friends meeting.

And the world shifted out of trajectory momentarily and then continued its elliptical orbit around the sun almost as if nothing had happened. John and Sherlock commenced their orbit around each other, the influence as one pulled one way and the other another way, balancing the cosmos.

Chaos was allowed. Chaos built the Universe. So while it wasn't always perfect and there was hurt and anger on both sides and there were most certainly trust issues and pain and suffering, it built the foundations of the planetary system that was John and Sherlock.

There was also love. Most definitely, most wondrously. Love was the pull of gravity and the sphere of influence. Love was their theory of relativity.

And those same people say love is the reason the world spins madly on.

They say a lot of things.


	2. 2 Control

**A/N: JAL – your story Alpha – Omega, chapters 8 & 12 inspired me. Thanks (grin).**

2. Control

control – noun – **1.** the power of directing, command **2.** the power of restraint, esp. self-restraint **3. a** a means of restraint; a check

A whisper.

"Lay still and don't move."

_Snick_

A button came undone.

Exposure of more pale perfect skin.

John's forefinger reached in and brushed the skin along the collarbone.

"John…"

"Shhh."

John drew his finger out and laid it on Sherlock's lips.

"You are not to talk."

_Snick _

Another button.

"But John…."

"Sherlock," and Sherlock looked into John's eyes. How on earth had he ever thought John was a sea of calm? There was rage and fear and hurt in those eyes.

And lust. There was almost no iris left in John's eyes; they were all pupil, blown wide open.

He thought back to earlier that night after being rescued from the kidnappers. He had known John would find him and the doctor showing up had left him feeling cocky and in control. It had been a lark, a game. And then he'd seen John's face.

Anger, fear, rage. Just like now. Most of it directed toward the detective. He hadn't intended to be kidnapped, but it worked out and it solved the case. John should not be angry with him.

Except John had no choice but to kill the man who had grabbed Sherlock.

By the time Lestrade had shown up John had managed to clamp down on the murderous feelings he had toward his flatmate. He'd just finished shouting at Sherlock, telling him he was an unmitigated arse.

Not many people knew that John and Sherlock had upped their relationship, but Lestrade was one who did. He was familiar with the look on John's face as similar to the way his wife looked when he'd been involved in something dangerous, even though the former soldier had managed to bury most of his emotions and had presented a calm exterior to the world. Lestrade watched the two men as they marched away, Sherlock trailing behind like a kicked puppy. He thought the detective was going to be either very lucky tonight or very dead. Or possibly both. He chuckled quietly and silently wished him good night and turned to get the crime scene under control.

Sherlock's thoughts had turned to the same page as Lestrade's. He was going to be very lucky or very dead.

He hadn't seen this side of John's personality in the bedroom yet. John had let Sherlock lead, letting him make the first moves and control the degree of closeness. Until they started sleeping together it had been outside Sherlock's comfort zone to be this intimate with someone and John had been perfectly happy to relinquish the reins. But this was different.

This was raw and powerful. John was dominating every move.

Sherlock was thinking he might not mind it so much.

If John wasn't so angry with him, that is.

John, who was straddled across Sherlock's hips, still wearing far too many clothes as far as the taller man was concerned, bent forward and whispered quietly, softly, in his ear. He breathed, "You are very lucky to be alive. You are very lucky I didn't kill you myself." His tongue flicked out and carefully traced the rim of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock closed his eyes and shuddered. John's tongue probed a little deeper. He moaned.

John continued speaking,

"If you ever do anything that phenomenally stupid again I _will_ kill you." His lips and teeth nipped and bit down hard on Sherlock's neck, ran along the underside of his chin, making his own marks, laying claim. "They shouldn't have touched you." He tenderly, softly kissed the bruise on his chin where the other man had been punched during the abduction. At the same time his clever, clever fingers continued to flick open the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and then he cautiously reached in and felt along Sherlock's ribs assessing damage there, bruising but no further injury.

He sat up a bit and looked deeply into the detective's eyes. "If they hurt you, they hurt me. We aren't separate anymore. You have to realize that." He bent down and kissed the younger man's full, lush lips. Then he lifted Sherlock's wrist to his own lips and gently licked at the marks left by the ropes. "You can't go after them alone. You can't leave me behind." He stopped and looked at Sherlock again, "We're together in this," he all but growled the last part and bent down and finished the kiss he'd started earlier. Sherlock could feel all of John's pain and fear in that kiss. He heard him murmur against his mouth, "I thought you were dead." And his breath hitched.

Sherlock folded his arms around the man he was beginning to realize he loved with a depth that astonished him and he whispered back. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He felt his vision blur a little. "It won't happen again." He hadn't known about the ramifications and responsibilities that came with this level of commitment.

He was shaken because he didn't know this John. John got angry and blew up, but he wasn't like this, didn't suppress his fury like this. And then he realized John wasn't as furious as he had thought, he was scared and it came out as anger, for him, for Sherlock. No one had cared about him this much before.

John resumed kissing Sherlock and then tracked kisses down his chest, pausing to nip his nipples, the kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding. He reached Sherlock's navel and sat up making quick work with the belt, button and zip. Before Sherlock was even aware of it he was completely naked.

And then he stopped thinking for a long time.

Later, after, he curled around the smaller man, his chest to the doctor's back and hand over John's chest. He nuzzled the back of his neck and murmured,

"You know John, if that was suppose to be a deterrent and a preventative for me doing thoughtless acts I think you may have failed. If that's how you act when I get hurt it may make me wish to do it more often."

John chuckled sleepily. "Just remember the part about where I said I'd kill you."

Sherlock smiled against John's neck.

"Maybe next time I can punish you for being stupid."

But John was asleep.

Sherlock carded his free hand through John's hair.

John had been right. He couldn't do that to John again. He was connected to him on so many levels. Levels he was just beginning to discover. And when one of them was in pain, they both were.

He fell asleep, wrapped around the man he loved.


	3. 3 Efface

**A/N: This one takes place earlier in their relationship.**

3. Efface

efface- verb- **1.** rub or wipe out (a mark, etc.) **2. a** cause (a thing) to disappear entirely or remove all traces of (a thing) **b** (in abstract senses) obliterate or wipe out (a memory, mental impression, etc.) **3.** utterly surpass, outshine or eclipse

obscure reference – make oneself appear insignificant or inconspicuous

Sherlock watched John through his lashes as he sat, across from him, reading. The detective was attempting to look through some cold case files Lestrade had dropped off.

Sherlock was not actually interested in the files.

He was thinking about John.

Correction.

He was obsessing about John.

And he was trying to decide whether or not he should delete his burgeoning feelings for him.

He tried to think back to a time when John wasn't part of his thoughts. He couldn't. He had been there, unceasingly, from their first meeting, at first innocuously and then gradually, increasingly occupying his every waking moment and invading his dreams.

He thought back and remembered how intrigued he was, right from the beginning, by this man, the one everyone supposed was quiet, unassuming and unremarkable. The man, who stepped back, withdrew and let Sherlock shine.

_Don't the fools realize that John far outstrips me, eclipses me, not intellectually, but with his humanity and his goodness, his Johness. He surpasses me in so many ways. They should be basking in his light, not mine. He is, by far, more remarkable._

He thought back to that first run through the streets of London after an unknown killer and coming back to the flat and giggling, _giggling_ for heaven's sake, like school girls.

He thought of John's infectious laugh and he couldn't help himself. The corners of his mouth twitched and he could feel heat coursing though his body. There was a fluttery feeling in his stomach.

_Look at him. Sitting there. He looks tired. His brow furrowed as he is trying to figure out who the killer is in that insipid murder mystery. Anyone could tell it's the gardener. How could I possibly have feelings for someone who would read such drivel?_

But he did. All he wanted to do was stand up and walk over to where John was sitting, snatch the book from his hands, take his thumb and ever so carefully rub the frown marks off of his face. John should never be unhappy. Then he would take him in his arms and kiss him thoroughly, wiping all traces of care from that extraordinary face.

_Where the hell is this coming from?_

He did not have relationships. Not _this _type of relationship. He certainly did not have relationships with his flatmate. At least where he wanted to clutch at the bottom of John's jumper and roughly pull it off of him and push him against the wall and…

_This has got to stop. I am becoming too unfocussed. I cannot do this. This is just infatuation. I have to disconnect. What will happen if I am in the middle of a case and images of John float across my thoughts and instead of solving the case I start running my fingers in his hair or nuzzle his neck…_

_Oh God! Stop! Stop it! Right Now!_

The more he envisioned deleting his feelings from his mind the more John entwined and tangled himself throughout his being. He pulsed through every cell, every molecule. He would not leave his awareness; he would not be uprooted or pulled out. He could not get more than half a thought out before he was running various scenarios through his head on how to get John to remove that bulky jumper so he could see what was underneath and graze his hand across the chest he knew to be well muscled and run it down to his abdomen…

"Argh!" Sherlock flung the files, violently, to the floor and stomped off to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

He flung himself on his bed and grabbed his hair in his hands and started tugging, hoping the pain would drive all thoughts of John out.

It didn't work.

He scrubbed at his face, not knowing what to do. He had never felt this frustrated.

_This is ridiculous. I cannot afford these feelings. I cannot do this. I cannot work like this. I have to tell him so he will leave. But if I tell him, he _will_ leave and that will be the end, before it has even begun and I don't think I could bear it. If I delete the feelings, these emotions, then at least he will never know and he will stay and I can be near him even if I don't know or remember why I want to be totally wrapped up in him, in his very existence._

These words were racing, rapid fire through his thoughts. He didn't hear the tentative knock at the door.

He was still muttering to himself, his hands pressing down onto his eyes, causing colours to bloom behind the lids, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock jumped.

"Sorry," a low voice, concern evident. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Sherlock lifted his hands off of his face and blinked as his vision attempted to return.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay? You've been acting jumpy and odd all week," John chuckled, his chuckle shot through Sherlock's body, and vibrated. "Well, odd for you. What can I do? How can I help?"

_You can stop invading my thoughts. Stop connecting yourself to me. Stop. Stop driving mad with desire and want and need. Just…Stop._

"Don't be absurd, John. How on earth could you help me," he couldn't keep his voice sarcastic, too much sorrow sidled in, sorrow at what should be, at what was destined to be, but never could be.

Instead of storming off in a huff and leaving him, _leaving him, _John sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock's heart started racing and he blinked more furiously.

"I can help you by being here for you, you impossible man. If you would tell me what the problem is, I am sure we can figure something out."

_I don't deserve this._

"You don't deserve what?" a puzzled look, John's brow crinkled.

He actually said it aloud.

_Just lovely. Now I am loosing my mind. I don't know whether I am talking out loud or not._

He looked up at John and all he saw was kindness and compassion and patience while he felt horrible, terrible, awful, confused.

He opened his mouth and closed it before the horrible, horrible want and need could come out. Before he said the words that would drive John away. Words that had to be erased, eliminated.

Those awful, betraying words.

He tried again.

"I think I love you."


	4. 4 Luminous

**A/N: So this is the first chapter up that has already been published as a short piece. As I reread it for publishing (and fixed a couple of things – I'm sure I missed others :P). You may want to skip it if you've already read it, but it is connected. This is also the piece that gave this entire work its title.**

4. Luminous

luminous – adjective – **1**. full of or shedding light; radiant, bright, shining. **2**. phosphorescent, visible in darkness **3**. shedding intellectual, moral or spiritual light. **4**. of visible radiation

John woke with a start. Not a dream, or a nightmare this time, but emptiness in the bed beside him. A space grown cold with absence. He wiped his eyes and glanced around their bedroom. No sign of the younger man.

The room was brighter than normal. John remembered, on the way home, Sherlock had noted how full and luminous the Moon was. He had commented on the allure of the light and the way it glamoured the city. He said phrases like that more often since they had admitted their feelings for one another. Before he would have said sentiment. Now it was acknowledged that sometimes sentiment had its place.

He walked out into the living room and found Sherlock standing by the window.

The windows of the flat were open. A cool, gentle breeze betrayed the edges of the curtains. The Moon was full and it painted the room silver. It was one of those fairy nights, when strange things happen and portents are seen in the most mundane of ideas and objects. Where half remembered dreams reside and reality and make-believe intertwine and you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

Sherlock stood in the window, shirtless, the light gleamed off of his pale, porcelain skin. His skin glowed and glistened. He looked intangible. Even in the light his hair was ebony. His head half turned toward John as he heard him enter. Though it was difficult to discern Sherlock's features in the half-light cast on his face by the simple movement of his head, John could see his eyes clearly. Sometimes blue, mostly green, tonight they were mercuric and shining.

John felt his breath catch.

Here was brilliance and brightness and radiance. Here was beauty and glory. And not just the man's body, but also the man himself. The man and his mind.

John would gladly sit in shadows thrown by the man's intensity, just to hear the dazzle of words that flowed from his lips, his pink lips with the ridiculous Cupid's bow, out of place on most men, added refinement on Sherlock.

Sherlock held out his hand to John and pulled him into the light of the Moon. He would never let John simply sit in the dark. He knew in his heart John was the one who shone brightest. Sherlock was the Moon and John was the Sun, but theirs was not a relationship of jealousies or distances. They circled and revolved and followed and each needed the other to shine their brightest, to blaze and gleam.

Some would say Sherlock was cold and aloof and there were times he was, but John always found comfort and warmth underneath the remote exterior. _You just have to get close; you have to get pulled into the same orbit_, _to be_ _allowed into the same heavenly space_, he thought.

John trailed his hand down Sherlock's chest. He reached up and pulled his love's head down and whispered a kiss along his cheekbone. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John and tucked him under his head, pulled him tight and sighed deeply, at peace, however brief it may be.

John knew Sherlock wasn't a spiritual man, but he was. And in that moment of quiet splendor, he heard all the tumblers click into place and the locks fall off. The doors to the world, to the universe were thrown open and he found truth and grace, grace of beauty and grace of God, standing with his arms around the person he loved most, listening to the thud of his heart. He smiled and closed his eyes.

Time stopped in the eternity of that moment.

In the moment of love and trust as he stood in the light of two celestial bodies, in the luminosity of the moon, in the luminosity of Sherlock.


	5. 5 Embarrass

**A/N: Hey JAL - I used that phrase from the review – hope you like it – poetic license and all (grin)!**

**This one is from Lestrade's point of view and is a little lighter than some of the others are or will be. This is how he finds out.**

**Yeah – swearing.**

**Still don't own.**

5. Embarrass

embarrass – verb -**1.** cause (a person) to feel awkward or self-conscious or ashamed

archaic reference – hamper or impede

Lestrade ducked under the tape and followed the sounds of commotion coming from the building. He could hear voices and an argument taking place.

_Oh shit!_

It wasn't often Sherlock beat him to a crime scene, but he knew the consulting detective would want to see this, as it was the third victim for what was promising to be a serial killer. Holmes' favourite, so he would have arrived as quickly as possible. Lestrade had had to fight traffic.

He always tried to be there first because if Sherlock came in all scathe and petulance, especially with Anderson, it could get down right ugly.

But it seemed there was only Holmes and Watson. So it must have been those two fighting. No Anderson at all.

_Huhn_, Lestrade grunted to himself, surprised.

By the time he entered, things seemed calmer and he wondered what the argument had been about. He scanned the room, taking in the emotional temperature and attuning himself to the condition of the participants.

The air was still a little tense.

Sherlock was completely absorbed in investigating and appeared indifferent to the glowers that his flatmate was shooting him, although there was a stiff set to his shoulders to indicate something was off.

John was definitely in a grumpy mood, if the storm clouds floating across his face were any indication.

_Great. If John's that angry, Sherlock must have done something colossally stupid. What on earth could have happened?_

Lestrade knew there wasn't much that ruffled the doctor, but Sherlock being an arse was top of the list. An irritable John meant handling Sherlock would be a chore.

He apparently came in on the middle of the conversation.

"I've told you already, John, it is not my fault you are tired. You know I dislike repeating myself. If this is what lack of sleep does to you, you will just have to get more rest."

John swore, an unusual response. Not John swearing, but so publicly. He usually muttered imprecations under his breath and saved swearing for truly intense moments in the privacy of the flat.

His voice held a steeliness, which indicated he was not finished chastising the detective, "Well I would have had more sleep if you'd kept your hands off last night. I told you I'd had a long day and then you put your sodding cold feet on me and stole the bloody covers! It was fucking freezing last, night Sherlock!"

"You didn't appear to be reluctant when I suggested sex as a way to warm up and as for afterwards, you could have always snuggled up to me and that would solve some of your problems with lowered body temperature."

It was at that precise moment the two men realized Lestrade had entered the room.

Silence reigned.

No one moved.

Lestrade's mouth fell open.

He really wished he'd had a camera, because the completely floored looks on all their faces must have been something indeed.

A slow flush crept its way up the shorter man's face. In his tired state he had not been circumspect and information that up until this instant had been private just spewed out on to the floor.

_Well,_ thought Lestrade.

He was glad he was the only one present. Donovan and Anderson would have a field day with this.

Which is why Lestrade was not going to tell them.

Firstly, they could keep their noses out. Secondly, he didn't care who you slept with as long as it was consensual and no one was cheating.

The sad part was until they told everyone else, he was not going to be able to collect the 50 quid from Dimmock.

"Er, umm, look, yeah. I don't care, what the hell you two, umm, _do_, just so you know," Lestrade may not care about sleeping arrangements, but that didn't mean he wasn't self-conscious regarding the information burning its way through the room.

John just continued to glow a bright red. He then nodded sharply and feigned great interest in a patch of damp on the wall across from him.

Lestrade walked over to Sherlock to hear his theories on the murder, as he tried to give John time to recover his composure.

Sherlock looked as if nothing had happened, except for the small grin trying to light its way at the corner of his mouth.

After a time, Sherlock billowed out of the room and John followed behind, in a more earthly manner, only to be stopped by a friendly hand on the arm, hindering his exit.

"John, you've nothing to be ashamed of mate. You know you're the best thing that's happened to that lunatic, right?" he paused as he assessed the man in front of him.

And he could see everything unspoken, everything implied.

No, he wasn't ashamed of this growing union and he was not ashamed of Sherlock. Not ever.

He just didn't want personal moments to become public ones. It was understood that Sherlock and John were intensely private, not because they were embarrassed by their relationship, but because it was nobody else's business. What they had was special, and flaunting it or putting it on public display, would not cheapen it, that could never happen, but it would make it spectacle. People would talk more than they already did and neither man wanted that.

John's slow sunny grin chased the testiness off of his face. Lestrade grinned back. When John smiled like that it was contagious.

Lestrade would have high-fived him if they had been younger.

_Yeah, he's good for Sherlock, but I do believe the reverse is equally true._

He watched as the two men left to hail a cab. There was nothing different, precisely, about the way they stood or walked to indicate the change in their relationship, but they were definitely more relaxed and everything seemed…balanced.

He tried not to watch, as ever so carefully, making it look like it was nothing, Sherlock brushed up against John. He must have whispered something to the other man, because Lestrade could see the back of John's neck flame up again. And then the cab pulled up and they left.

Lestrade turned to finish up the scene.

Part of him wondered what the younger man had said to his, well, partner seemed more than appropriate now.

He grinned.

They were both very lucky.


	6. 6 Sensation

**A/N: Dear Ennui Enigma – I am not sure if I have done this piece justice, because I am always filled with doubts about the final product. I dedicate this chapter to you because you pushed me in my writing. I hope I met your challenge and this is what you imagined.**

**Dear JAL – thank you for holding my hand and inspiring me daily!**

**Sorry – longish definition, but it is necessary.**

Sensation

sensation – noun – **1.** the consciousness of perceiving or seeming to perceive some state or condition of one's body or it's parts or of the senses; an instance of such consciousness. **2.** an awareness or impression (_created sensation of time passing; a sensation of being watched_). **3. a** a stirring of emotions or intense interest, esp. among a large group of people (_the news caused a sensation_) **b** a person, event, etc. causing such interest.

The wind blew through his dark curls and he stood as steadily as he could. The wind and emotions buffeting and tearing at him, both trying to push him over the edge, before he was ready.

A good gust and down he would go.

But not before he said goodbye.

Please let him say goodbye.

He was remembering their last night together before everything came undone. Not _last_ night, which was only an impression of escaping, running and hiding. And fear. Fear that he wouldn't be able to pull this off.

No, he was thinking of their last night. Together.

John sprawled below him upon the sheets. The sensation that he floated and hovered protectively above him with the cinnamon resonance of angel wings, wings that guarded and sheltered. He locked eyes and refused to let John glance away. Both knew it was becoming desperate. Between Moriarty's plan and the media he was being torn apart by the wolves, left to rot in the sun.

No longer the media's darling. No longer safe from Moriarty's madness.

Desperation filled the air, bitterness and the taste of salt left them aching, not knowing what might be coming next and if it would rip them apart. Not knowing if there were any other instances.

He enveloped John in kisses and caresses, kisses that clamored with need and caresses that heightened awareness and drove John from fevered pitch to the honeyed silences between cries and moans.

Touches lingered afterwards, the velvet undertone of murmurs, both refused to sleep and neither wanted to be the last to let go.

And in the now, here, on the roof, the final moment. This was his last gift, this decision, and he would give this gift gladly, though it was wrapped in pain and sorrow.

He had spoken truths by saying he was on the side of the angels, not one of them, but like an angel he would fall and alone, wander the Earth, denied Heaven.

He held out his hand and touched nothing, but he could feel the texture of John's anguished reach.

_Goodbye, John._

He tossed the mobile, spread his arms and with the leap of faith, fell, to the sound of wings.


	7. 7 Tangible

**A/N: Because I didn't give you enough angst in the last chapter, I reward you with more. I actually hadn't intended to do a chapter about this, but I found the word and the rest followed.**

Tangible

tangible – adjective – **1.** perceptible by touch; having material form. **2.** clearly intelligible; that can be grasped by the mind, not elusive or visionary **3.** substantial, definite; that may be clearly viewed, evaluated, or calculated. – noun – a tangible thing, esp. an asset.

Sherlock leaned against the wall and let the water flow over him, the heat and steam worked against tired and sore muscles. He closed his eyes and simply existed in a state of mental and physical fatigue.

He'd been home for only a few days and he was still not recovered from the ordeal.

The water started to cool. He must have been standing there, lost in thought longer than he realized.

Time shifts and jumps seemed to be a common occurrence in his life. Since he'd left that is. He lost whole stretches of instances, trying to stay alive.

Trying to stay alive to get back to John.

John.

John who would not look at him let alone talk to him.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel. He pulled it around behind and toweled off, trying not to wince when it rubbed against half healed cuts and bruises.

He wrapped the towel around his middle and made his way back to the bedroom. Their bedroom, although they had yet to share it since Sherlock's return.

The first night, when he had knocked on the door and John had opened it, he had seen the look of stunned disbelief and denial on John's face. He knew the other man would be angry. He hoped he'd punch him and get it out of his system, but he had not anticipated the pain, grief and sense of betrayal that floated behind the older man's eyes.

John talked to him that night and hadn't since.

Just little things. How he'd moved back to his old room shortly after…

He had said it was too difficult sleeping in Sherlock's room.

He'd called it Sherlock's room. Not theirs.

He hadn't said much else. He was happy he wasn't dead, glad he had come back.

And then John had just shut down, closed off. A shutter had blocked the view into those expressive blue eyes. He wandered the flat like a ghost, elusive, barely eating, not talking. Not sleeping. He treated Sherlock as if he were insubstantial as well.

And he had never once touched Sherlock.

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if either of them existed, if they hadn't both died and this was some sort of purgatory.

The day after he'd returned, John had left the flat for a few hours. Sherlock didn't know where and hadn't wanted to follow him, wanted John to come back in his own time. He had sat on the couch and stared into nothing, wondering if it had been worth it to lose the connection to the only person he'd loved as much as he loved the ex-soldier. He sat there lost in a tempest of doubt and fear.

Mrs. Hudson came up with a cup of tea, sat beside him and placed her arm around the far too thin shoulders. She had forgiven him much faster.

"But then I am not in love with you, my dear. And you have to know no matter how hard it's been for you, you at least knew he was alive. John had nothing. He mourned you and buried you and a good part of him followed you into that grave."

She patted his knee.

"Give it time."

But Sherlock didn't think there would ever be enough time for John to forgive him. And he knew no matter the cost, he'd do it again. Do it again to save Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but mostly to save John.

These dark thoughts flowed behind him as he left the bathroom only to be stopped by the sight of John standing there, transfixed.

John hadn't seen his body yet, hadn't seen all the new scars and had only guessed at the weight loss. The detective had been thin before. Now he was gaunt, his ribs showing under the pallid skin.

John took a hesitant step forward, a frown on his face. He stretched his hand out to touch Sherlock's chest, but stopped, glanced up at the taller man, a small glance, enough to disclose the bewilderment and hurt still defined in his eyes, palpable and profound.

Sherlock had to close his own at the overwhelming feelings present there, feelings that were going to pull him in and drown him if he let them.

A touch like a rumour brushed his ribs and tickled along a healed knife wound placed there by one of Moriarty's underlings. A physical scar to sit side by side, hand in hand with all the emotional ones.

His eyes snapped open and he studied John.

John was not looking at him, however. He was cataloguing every new scar and bruise and half healed cut, as well as counting Sherlock's ribs. There was a shaky inhalation of breath and a shudder went through the other man's frame.

And those beautiful, soulful, storm tossed eyes looked straight at him, but turned outward, not internally consuming as they had been. He was finally acknowledging Sherlock was here, physical and material and not a revenant to be exercised.

He was greatly afraid of seeing the acknowledgement in John's eyes dim and fade and the two of them return to haunting the flat.

"I hadn't realized," John croaked, his voice rusty from disuse the last few days. "I didn't know." And the infinite sadness was still present, but perhaps there was a small glimmer of light trying to shine through the mire of darkness confined there.

He closed his eyes as he laid his hand flat on Sherlock's chest, over his heart, to feel it beating, the shudder returned. As a slow tear tracked down his cheek and Sherlock raised his hand and brushed it gently, reverently away, he could feel the ties that bound them twist and wrap around and through the two. It felt like a tangible entity, an acknowledgement of the relationship they had built together. And they were, if possible, stronger and fiercer than they had been.

John opened his eyes again and while they remained agony filled, they were not as glaringly wounded looking.

"I need time, Sherlock. You have to understand that."

Sherlock cupped the beloved face, "That's what Mrs. Hudson said."

A small, tired smile, reminiscent and missed pulled at the corner of John's mouth, "A wise woman is Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock let hope build in his chest and was finally, finally allowed to pull John into his arms.

He was home at last.

They were both home at last.


	8. 8 Incandescent

**A/N: Here is the second chapter that was first published as a short. If you have read it feel free to skip. I have (hopefully) cleaned up some mistakes.**

**This is also a good time to remind you that I don't own (which you knew) & I wish I did. The only thing I do own are any and all mistakes. Those definitely belong to me.**

Incandescent

_incandescent – adjective – __**1.**__ (of an electric or other light) produce by a glowing white-hot filament. __**2.**__ Glowing with heat. __**3.**__ Becoming warm or intense in feeling, expression, etc. ardent._

He lay on his side, head propped on his hand, elbow locked, making a perfect triangle, watching the other man sleep. He laid his other hand, long thin fingers splayed out, across the other's chest, placed carefully over the heart so he could feel the beat of the muscle under the skin. His breath caught and hitched, his own heart raced as he compared the contrast in their skin tones. His pale, porcelain shot with moonlit luster. His partner's rich gold, kissed by the sun.

_John_

His personal star.

Sol could not shine brighter.

He knew nothing about the solar system, but he knew he orbited around the man lying beside him, pulled in by the gravity.

Bound to him.

Basked in the warmth and glow.

Waves of solar heat and radiance.

He thought somewhat with shame a phrase that had slipped out, one he had meant as a compliment but now realized how inadequately it explained a complexity like the man slumbering beside him.

_You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable._

Far from adequate.

More than a conductor of light.

He was the bearer of light.

Here was someone who cleared the darkness of his thoughts, of his feelings, of his soul. John swept in and gleamed and glistened, like morning light on the sea, the deep sea of his blue eyes. He lit the darkened corners, exposed and destroyed the monsters of doubt and fear and cruelty, kept them at bay.

John's eyes fluttered slightly, his eyelashes laid against his face, a slightly darker gold than his eyebrows, lids closed on the midnight blue sea. His nose was caressed with a few freckles; they too were a darker gold, darker than his summer tan. His fringe swept across his brow alternating shades of blonde and brown and a few strands of grey. Sherlock lifted a tentative hand to brush the hair aside. He relished in the feel of it through his fingers. The movement of his hand caused John to stir slightly and he muttered something unintelligible and Sherlock stilled his touch.

He was caught in wonder that allowed him to be in close proximity to this fission, this combustion. He should be burnt to a cinder, his heart erupting and melted. But instead he revealed in the luxury of being allowed to lay here indolent, indulged and basking, under a desert sun.

With an ardor that burned through veins, boiled.

If this was stepping too close to the sun then it was worth it.

To feel this.

The man who loved him.

Put up with him.

Forgave him.

He couldn't stop himself. His hand moved of its own violation.

Not able to wait any longer.

He lightly traced his fingertips over John's chest, gently caressed his nipples and the light covering of hair, unconsciously created patterns in something exotic and beautiful like Sanskrit or Arabic, wrote his name, wrote _Mine,_ surprised that it did not leave trails of fire behind. He swept down across John's stomach to his side and brushed gently over the ribs. John stirred again. And this time Sherlock bent and placed his lips across John's, a supplication. Wove his kiss around his lips, down the chin, across his neck and his chest, kisses that blazed and scorched. Back to his mouth, slowly, slowly, savored, tasted.

John's eyes fluttered and half-asleep he turned into the kiss.

A slight smile curved his lips as he awoke, like the dawn, bringing life and warmth to the coldness of night.

He murmured, amusement evident in his voice,

"How long have you been watching me sleep?"

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "For forever." He flicked his tongue out and slowly traced the edges of John's mouth, lovingly, let the heat that was present under the surface build in intensity.

John's sleepy eyes opened, looked up into Sherlock's, pupils blown, reached out with his own tongue to entwine with the other. Reached out with his arms, his hands pulled him closer into the flames.

Tongues and legs and arms.

Skin brushing skin.

Hands and fingers captured, held, released.

Mouths, fingers, hands used for other better more erotic purposes.

Sighs and murmurs and whispers breathed and shuddered.

Names caressed, fervently.

Flesh caressed, fervently.

Faces in adoration.

Sherlock, the atheist, who worshipped on the altar that was John.

Kissed and prayed and cried out in exultation.

And he lay in the glow, in the after, in the light that never dimmed, that lit his way through darkness.

John Watson.

Incandescent.


	9. 9 Aware

**A/N: Sorry I was a bit longer getting this one together. The time of the year and a number of other commitments interfered with writing as well as having difficulty finding the right 'A' word:P. I do have the words and ideas for the next three chapters so hopefully they will be up a little quicker.**

**As always I thank my two muses EE & JAL. Bless you both!**

9. Aware

aware – adjective – 1. (often followed by _of _or _that_ + clause) conscious; not ignorant; having knowledge. 2. well-informed. Also found in _attrib_. use in sense 2. As in very _a_ _very aware person_; this is _disputed_.

John felt he could not hold back on the compliments. He was compelled and nothing his brain would say could possibly still his tongue. Usually a thoughtful and often contemplative man, his mouth betrayed him time and again.

Sherlock was, by far, the most devastatingly intelligent man he had ever met. And John had met a few, both in the army and in the medical profession. But Sherlock's dazzling, firework genius, surpassed them all.

The words 'brilliant,' 'amazing', 'fantastic' and 'incredible' fell from his lips in a way that would normally make him cringe at the effusiveness of it all and writhe with embarrassment, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Fortunately Sherlock didn't seem to mind. In fact he said he it was fine. A tiny, almost unnoticeable smile touched the taller man's lips and then he continued with the deductions in rapid-fire sequence, faster than the bullet that turned John's life around.

Watching Sherlock was like listening to music. John would immerse himself in the performance and the sound of Sherlock's thoughts. He became one with the piece the same way he perceived the undertones in a musical composition. With music John would close his eyes and let the sound flow over him in a stream of tranquility. Sherlock's thoughts forced his eyes open and the water was more turbulent. He was awakened and energized by them. They were not calming, certainly dangerous.

Dangerous in more ways than John was aware of when he first met the man.

He was becoming increasingly conscious of the fact that he was becoming attracted to the man in a way he had never been attracted to anyone before. And it wasn't just his looks, which were certainly striking in their extraordinary uniqueness. For the first and probably the last time, John found himself thinking things about a male partner that he never imagined would flit across his mind.

He pushed the thoughts aside, continued to date women and generally behaved like best mates with a dramatic, highly intelligent arse. He told himself it was a crush and an attraction to the intelligence of the man in question.

And then came the day that Sherlock played for him. Played properly. Not in a strident fit of piqué or as a counter point to his brother's taunts, nor as flavouring to the festive season.

No. He really and truly played a brilliant and lovely piece of music. And the music cleared away the cobwebs of doubts and denials, opened up doors, windows and swept in like spring after a hard winter.

It was one of those nights, rarer since moving into the flat with this impossible man. The case they had solved had hit too close to John's remembrances. The killer had targeted soldiers on leave in some weird retribution for his own son's death. John had been unable to save the young solider who had been brutally assaulted. They had found him after tracking down the lair of the serial killer, but had been too late, by minutes. Despite John's best efforts and the arrival of the paramedics, the young man had died.

John had left before Sherlock, needing some time to himself and wanting to come to terms with the loss.

Sherlock had watched him go and had seemed cognizant of the fact that this had been difficult for John. He uncharacteristically stayed silent and upon returning to the flat had even provided tea without uttering a word.

John had slipped off to bed early, with minimal fuse nor drawing attention to himself. Sherlock stayed awake, waited, listened, expectant. The cycle of restless movement coming from the floor above was the signal he had been anticipating. As he heard John's tread on the stairs, he picked up the Stradivarius and launched into a composition of his own creation. One he subconsciously referred to as _John's Theme._

John was of course completely ignorant of this thought, but he was all to mindful of how moving the piece was and how it seemed to offer some much needed release. The death of the young solider had pulled out the memories of the war and paraded them on the bedroom ceiling. The song seemed to be telling the ghosts of John's memories to rest and liberate the world-weary doctor.

John watched the other man play and became certain that he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. The stance of the man, the way his fingers moved and the look of concentration and pure abandonment on the incredibly striking face. He knew that was the instant he fell totally head over heels, madly in love with the eccentric man. The knowledge vibrated through his small frame and rocketed straight to his core. He could no longer reject the evidence of his eyes and heart. He told his brain to shut up. There was no room for logic in this, no rationalizations as to how or why. It was simply and purely, because.

He kept the knowledge buried in his heart, to be treasured with wonder and regret, understanding there was no possibility of the other sharing his feelings.

Little did he realize.

Because as he watched Sherlock and was attuned to his every movement and to every nuance, Sherlock watched John. He watched a soundless tear course down John's cheek and a tingle of warmth entered the detective's heart and a crack appeared in the barriers he had carefully constructed to keep others out. The clarion call broke down his walls and could not have been louder or more piercing. Dust remained of anything he had put up between the two of them and he was seriously considering becoming an adulterer.

Three weeks later, lying on his bed, looking at the man who had destroyed his reserved and defined his heart, Sherlock declared "I think I'm in love with you."


	10. 10 Loss

**A/N: So this did not turn out quite the way I expected – supposedly that is suppose to be fun – at least I've said that before. We'll see what you think. I am not sure what to think but it is about Mycroft after all.**

**No worries. It's not what you may be thinking from the title. Once again the letter and the word were stubborn and difficult :P The next chapter promises to be delicious!**

**Warnings – some swearing, but it's at Mycroft so maybe that's okay.**

10. Loss

loss – noun – **1. a** the act or an instance of losing; the state of being lost. **b.** the fact of being deprived of a person by, death, estrangement, etc. **2. **a person, thing or amount lost. **3.** the detriment or disadvantage resulting from losing

Sherlock sat, legs crossed, hands folded neatly, he appeared static on the outside, seething like a storm on the inside. He was a summer squall ready to deluge the island nation that was his older brother.

Mycroft sat across from him, legs equally crossed, calm on the outside, calm on the inside and only one other person besides himself would guess at the emotional upheaval his younger brother was experiencing and that other person was not present at the moment.

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"You are wrong, Mycroft," he hissed.

Mycroft tilted his head back slightly, smirked and drawled, "No, dear brother, I do not think that I am. You are experiencing confusion. You have simply decided that John is your next thrill, your new drug of choice. You will grow weary when he becomes dull and predictable, you will ignore him, lose interest and it will end in heartbreak. Not yours of course, but his. I am, after all, just as concerned for John as I am for you."

Sherlock could feel the rage bubbling inside, almost hear the blood-red anger his brother was causing to course through his veins, his brother who did not understand, could not understand, John was not an experiment or a game, he was not the next novel thing to keep his interest and his brain engaged. John was his and he was John's. And his interfering, condescending sibling would not sully or tarnish the exquisiteness and ecstasy he was experiencing in this relationship. He needed John as much as he needed the Work.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, a hint of contained anger, "Leave now before I take delight in throwing you down the stairs."

Mycroft stood, not in acknowledgment that Sherlock's threat held anything valid, but because he was withdrawing, assured in the tactical advantage. He, of course, had a parting shot ready.

"Sherlock. Give this up. Although I understand the draw the doctor has for you, I am baffled that you, of all people, would engage in," and scorn crept into his voice, "sexual activities. Have you really fallen so low that you would succumb to the needs of the flesh? How does any of this sordidness help you with what you do? What you thrive on? Think Sherlock. If you continue to follow this path it will end in ruination."

Mycroft tugged on his waistcoat and turned to head out of the flat, but stopped abruptly when he saw John standing there. The two had been so busy, engaged in the argument between them, neither had heard John upon the stairs nor enter the flat. John had obviously heard them, judging by the pale complexion and the angry glitter in his eyes.

Mycroft sniffed, "John," he greeted, a hint of disdain entered his otherwise impeccably polite voice.

John narrowed his eyes. "I believe Sherlock asked you to leave, Mycroft," he said softly, dangerously. There was no forgiveness or desire for explanation present in that simple statement.

Mycroft nodded sharply, swept his gaze back to his brother and left, his voice carried back up the stairs, "Think about what I said Sherlock."

John drew in a sharp breath and turned as if to go after him, but Sherlock stilled him with one word, part plea, part command, "John."

John turned back to look at the other man, his heart telling him everything he needed to know and he crossed over to Sherlock.

He stood not quite knowing what to say, understanding how deeply hurt Sherlock was that his brother had not approved of their relationship. He wasn't as much worried for himself, as he was for Sherlock and his tangle of newfound emotions. Mycroft and Sherlock may not get along but there was a deep reliance between the two and even John knew that something within Sherlock craved his brother's approval.

He elected to run a hand through the younger man's hair, brushed back the thick, curly mass and swept his hand down to the base of his skull and began massaging the tension contained there.

Sherlock's normally light coloured eyes, which usually gleamed with capriciousness and fire, were dulled and dark with suppressed emotion.

John leaned down and planted a glancing kiss upon Sherlock's temple. "He always was a git," he murmured.

Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes remained shuttered.

John realized Sherlock needed some space to work through and catalogue what had happened, kissed Sherlock again on top of the head and went to prepare something for dinner, all the while cursing Mycroft to hell and back for being an meddling bastard.

Their relationship was a new, precious and wonderful entity and it wouldn't take much for Sherlock to close up and shut down. John felt a twinge of fear enter his heart. He had found something rare and cherished. He didn't want to lose it.

oOo

Several days later found John as he walked back home from the shops, groceries in hand, when a long, black car pulled up beside him.

He continued to trudge back to the flat, as he vainly attempted to ignore the vehicle pacing him.

He finally stopped after suffering through a block of people staring at him oddly and turned toward the car. It stopped and the door swung open as if of it's own accord.

A voice called out with authority from inside. "Get in the car Dr. Watson."

The remembered words caused a sigh to leak out of John's body. He knew there was no escape and he might as well get this over with. He hoped he could at least shout some choice words at Mycroft and maybe land a punch before the British Government had him shot, dismembered and disappeared for buggering his little brother.

John climbed into the car and pulled the door behind him. He refused to look at Mycroft and waited for the dropping of the proverbial shoe.

"I am sorry to have to speak to you like this, but it's the only way to talk to you in private. Sherlock must not know we have spoken." There was a pause as he let John digest that bit of news. "I want to apologize for what I said in your flat the other day. You were not meant to hear that."

John had been in the process of opening his mouth, an angry retort on his lips, when Mycroft's words caught up with his thoughts.

"You want…what did you say?"

"I believe you heard me, John. I do not like to repeat myself."

John mentally rolled his eyes, _yeah, who's that like?_

Mycroft's stare was even more piercing than his brother's and John felt himself being evaluated once again, but in a different way from the night they first met, when John had no idea who this man was.

"John, I wish to ask you something."

John hesitated and then mentally shrugged. "Alright."

"You know my brother fairly well, and no, I do not mean in the biblical sense," he caught the blush that crept up John's face at that remark. Sex was still new enough that innuendo was apparent in everything.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "What do you think my brother's reaction would be if I endorsed your relationship?'

John, already feeling like they had entered unstable territory, frowned and looked at Mycroft, "What do you mean?"

"Do you think my brother would be happy if I approved your relationship? Or do you think he would casually toss it aside, because, to prove me wrong one way or another, he felt he couldn't live up to it if it meant agreeing with me?'

John felt anger returning, "You manipulative prick. You deliberately said those things in order to make Sherlock angry with you. You don't have enough faith or trust in him to see that it's not like that. You think Sherlock would just throw all we have between us just to spite you, if you approved. You really are a heartless bastard. Stop the car. I am getting out." It was all John could do not to thoroughly punch Mycroft in the eye, nose, wherever his fist landed. Maybe both.

The car pulled up to the kerb and John got out, but before he stormed off he said one final thing to Mycroft.

"I don't necessarily have the right to say this to you, but kindly stay the hell away from us until you can stop playing these fucking mind games. I love Sherlock and I am pretty damn sure he loves me and if you think it is perverted or disgusting or…or beneath your brother then you are mightily wrong. It's more than just sex, Mycroft." And he slammed the car door.

Mycroft watch the angry line of John's shoulders, as he marched away, in the opposite direction of the flat. Mycroft surmised that John was planning on cooling off before he returned. He knew there was no hope of Sherlock not knowing something had happened, but he believed that John needed time to gather his emotions and thoughts before confronting the younger man, to tell him what his horrid brother had done this time.

Mycroft nodded slightly, satisfied once and for all that Sherlock could not be in better hands. He could see the deep commitment between the two. He had desired to reassure himself that it was as strong and lasting as he had first believed. Some might call what he was doing interfering. He saw it as protecting his baby brother. He also had John's welfare upper most in his mind.

It was worth the loss of speaking to his brother for a period of time to be reassured that all was and would be well between the two men. He had been correct in his original analysis of John Watson.

He felt a slight twinge of something else creep through his belly. He analyzed it and dismissed it. He did not have room or time to be jealous. He felt a momentary measure of regret that he had not been the one to connect with the doctor, as if he had forfeited a prize, had handed it to his little brother, not realizing it's worth until too late. He believed it would always circle through his system, to return and ache with pain, an old wound. He choose not to delete it.

He nodded to his driver and the car drove away.


	11. 11 Intermezzo - Bodies

**A/N: Yeah – this one is a lot more graphic than I sometimes write, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip, I won't mind – due to all the naughty words floating in my head. Thank you lovey ladies at Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen Forum, where you can find a list of the words given to me under the thread Word Association. I do believe I used them all, except skin-to-skin which I deed over to JAL! Use it wisely! You all sure know how to give a girl ideas – there is a very wicked grin on my face as I write this. If you enjoyed this chapter please thank johnsarmylady, Ennui Enigma, jack63kids and mattsloved1. **

**Composed under the influence of **_**Book of Brilliant Things**_** and **_**Don't You Forget **__**About Me**_** - both by **_**Simple Minds**_** (thanks jack!).**

**When you have finished perusing this chapter slide over to read johnsarmyladys newest story, **_**Never Tear Us Apart**_**. I read it with my mouth hanging open. It is just that amazing.**

Intermezzo – Bodies

The pull of the sun's gravity influences the planetary bodies in the system. The earth spins on its axis and moves around the sun. The moon spins around the earth and affects the tides. As the earth turns the sun rises and the moon sets.

John and Sherlock rule and are central to each other, taking turns, as their importance and significance to the situation, to the crisis, to the dealings of the day, to the other, wanes and waxes. Their gravity draws them together; the force of the other's energy impact's on how they react to one another. At night, the moon rules, during the day, the sun.

It's all cosmic games and relations. It's all about sway and exertion. If one is hurt, angry or afraid then the other steps in and picks up and carries the load. If one is happy, loved or full of light, then so is the other. It's all about the impact of words, conditions and emotions.

It's all about the body and it's effect.

Before Sherlock met John, if he had played a word association game, which, frankly, he wouldn't have, and if he were asked what he thought when the word bodies was played, he would have come up with a list of words that would have included the following; death, murder, corpse, autopsy, carcass, bludgeon, stab, mutilate and others of similar ilk.

He might have even come up with the phrases body of evidence or body of lies or knowledge. If hard pushed, bodies of water, but probably only as convenient places to dump a body. He certainly wouldn't have given you a list of famous and familiar bodies of water unless necessary for a case.

Tonight, however, there were no bodies. There were no cases. There was nothing, but unrelenting boredom and with boredom came the relentless thoughts that the Work's distraction's kept at bay. There was too much, an abundance of everything streaming through his head, trying to fill the tediousness. Nothing to release the pressure, nothing to distracted him, nothing to discharge the whirlwind turmoil in his brain. His thoughts were reeling and spinning and not settling. Every piece, every section was on overflow.

Tonight was a bit not good.

Sherlock paced the flat in a continuous circuit, across the coffee table, over to the fireplace, climbed over John's chair, back to the couch to throw himself into it for the space of five seconds, back over the coffee table and start again. Frenetic, frantic, twitchy, mad.

It could have been a danger night.

As luck, fate, karma, chance would have it, John walked through the door.

John understood right away, intrinsically, as natural as breathing. It was better than the first eighteen months he had known him. There had been more nights like this. The time away, dead and disappeared, had matured Sherlock, honed him. He was generally more settled and had fewer bad days where he would call John every name in the book, shout at Mrs. Hudson, and was wild enough to send John out for some peace. But he hadn't had a case in weeks, there were no experiments pending. There had been nothing but unrelenting ennui.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, in a tone lower than he usually spoke, hoping to send the sound through the air to register on a different plane, on a primal level.

"I can't John! I can't. It's too much. There's too much. I'm seeing too much. I'm thinking too much. I can't stop it," he twirled in place and marched over to John and then back around again not even giving John a chance to answer or comment.

John stayed unobtrusive, thoughtful. He knew this had been building, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad.

"What can I do?" he asked, simply, still modulating his tone, trying to think how to prevent wild night.

"Do? Do? There's nothing, nothing! I need to focus on something, anything! I need a distraction dammit!" He picked up a book and threw it across the living room hard. He stopped and scrubbed his hair.

John blinked.

"Sherlock. I can be your distraction."

The soft words seemed to filter through the pulsing chaos and he turned and looked at his partner. John saw Sherlock's pupils dilate so fast, they looked like something from one of those movies where the character is possessed by a certain force, a demon or an alien, the blue-green-grey, morphed to black, like Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock's mouth twitched at the corner and he shut his eyes for a minute.

A shudder ran through his tall frame.

Then he crossed over to where John was standing, near the door, and pushed him up against it, roughly.

John could see by the agitated unruliness of Sherlock's eyes that this was the only thing that would work, short of Lestrade waltzing in with a triple, locked room homicide.

Sherlock, in the space of movement, had transferred to the other list in his head. The new compilation of words he associated with bodies. After he and John became one, that list rapidly transformed into a catalogue. It continually changed and expanded. It was more comprehensive. These new words all associated with John and the things he liked to do with him.

Things he would like to do to him.

John could read these thoughts in Sherlock's eyes and he felt himself respond. Many of those same ideas lightening flashed through his mind as Sherlock leaned against the door with one arm and the other hand brushed John's cheek, fingers tingled, his touch sent that same electricity shooting through his body. A signal for the forces to build.

Nights like this didn't happen often, but when they did, John gave up control and submerged his sense of self in order to help Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock breathed into the other's ear, "You know what I want, what I need." His voice dropped lower than usual, mimicked the approach John had taken when he first spoke; the sound wrapped around John and drove out any remaining coherent thought. Remembrances of similar nights had his body responding rather quickly.

John had his back against the closed door, his hands pushed against the wood as if to hold him in place, as if he would fall to his knees, without his fingers pressed into the grain. His hair, dark with rain that had teamed down around him while walking home, sparkled in the light from the lamps. The fire had been built up and the glow highlighted the fact that John, who looked up at Sherlock, had pupils blown so wide with desire, just from thinking about what was going to happen, that there was almost no iris, just a hint of colour on the rim. His lip trembled as Sherlock slowly took his free hand and moved down to the top button on John's shirt. He leaned into John's space and captured his lower lip in his mouth and almost feverishly, desperately, latched onto it, tasting John, tasting the desire that rose and flooded both their bodies. At the same time he skillfully, unbuttoned John's shirt. He spread his hand against John's chest and could feel the smaller man's heart rate increase. Sherlock chuckled, darkly, like something untamable. The sound registered through John's frame and hit him directly in the groin. He gasped as Sherlock released his mouth long enough as he brought his hand down and lightly teased his fingers at the top of John's trousers, he hooked his forefinger underneath and followed the edge around with one hand to caress John's lower back, scratching with his nails. He then reached down with the other, to gently, carefully brushed against his groin, to feel John already hard and the moan, drawn from the body in front of him, ached with want and need, matched by the want and need in Sherlock.

John came to his senses enough to begin undoing Sherlock's buttons, with less care. Sherlock grinned a wolf's grin against John's mouth, hungry and feral, as he captured the doctor's clever tongue.

John managed to remove Sherlock's shirt at about the same time Sherlock divested John of his. The detective raised his hands and gripped John's shoulders, the left gently; the other was so firmly clasped it almost hurt. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist, fingers traced up and down along the faded scars from the dark days. It was a reminder that this could have been a dark night.

Sherlock bent his head and attacked John's neck as the doctor tilted his head to give him better access, his fingers moved to knead John's muscular back. He could feel a trickle of sweat as he tracked down John's spine in feather light touches, feeling shock waves travel through the toned, taunt body. He bent and teased the left nipple, already erect from the air in the flat, not gently, without mercy. He then applied the same consideration to the right. John's hand came up and grasped the back of Sherlock's head, fingers ran and tugged through the curls, as he pushed it into his chest.

John's breathing became more ragged and Sherlock heard the chocolate taste of his name caress John's lips. The silky, sweet savor of the sound of his named said in that particular tone.

Sherlock steered and pushed the two of them over to the rug on the hearth, pressed John down, hard, to the floor, all while he kissed, tasted, felt, heard, touched, catalogued. John writhed under him as Sherlock undid his belt, his fingers reached in and stroked the front of John's boxers, more teasing, provocative and coy. John said his name again, a plea, a prayer.

"Soon," he murmured, dark promises in his tone. "You need to distract me, John. I've been in torment all day," he continued huskily, "I intend to return the favour." And he chuckled again. John moaned knowing it was out of his power and he was totally at the whim of his partner, his madman, but it was a madness he would gladly follow and throw himself willingly down the same path.

"I am going to take you apart and put you back together. I will dissect you to your core and taste, and explore your very marrow. I need to deconstruct you," He kissed down to the top of John's trousers', glanced up through half lidded eyes as John's reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hair again. "You are all and everything I want John. You are mine."

The way Sherlock said John's name, the possibilities in a name, a simple common name, almost had John coming, but Sherlock would have none of that. He could make this last and he intended to do just that.

Sherlock tugged on John's trousers and soon they were tossed aside, to be joined by the boxers and socks. He left his own trousers on for the moment and he continued to kiss, savor and bite John's chest as he refused to touch him any place else. When John was almost sobbing out Sherlock's name, the taller man reached up into a drawer in the table and pulled something out. And somehow he managed to remove his trousers without John even being aware.

John's breath became more tattered when he saw the small tube.

"Been anticipating we'd need this, someday, were you?" his own voice sounded strange to his ears as the blood rushed deafeningly in his veins.

Sherlock's eyes lit with unholy glee, but an almost shy smile incongruously crossed his mouth and then was gone so fast John thought he had imagined it. He grabbed John's hands and held them by the wrists with one of his, his long fingers, clenched tightly around John's wrists, trapping them, holding them, as firmly as his violin, denying John the ability to touch Sherlock. And then Sherlock bent his head and John really stopped thinking while Sherlock took him, using his mouth to play John as dexterously as he played the Stradivarius, and sucked and licked, but more slowly this time, slow enough to drive John to the same frenzy Sherlock had been in when he had arrived at the flat, leisurely, as if he were methodically categorizing every response and tremor and gasp.

And then Sherlock reached down between John's legs and teased and taunted at his opening, which was so incredibly tight, slowly, maddeningly he slipped in one finger, soon joined by another. He momentarily let go of John's hands and there was a click as he opened the bottle of lube and spread it over them. Just as John thought he couldn't wait any longer, Sherlock entered in and unhurriedly, tantalizingly, thrust forward only to withdraw again, and he kept it up until there was no sensation except intensity and wetness and lust, slick and hot. John was deconstructed, dissected, taken apart, left scooped out and hollowed. And in that moment when all the darkness was driven out, they both came together crying out. And the madness left and bliss finally, thankfully descended on Sherlock as he slumped forward over John's strong body, strong enough to hold them both together. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's sweat-slicked, drenched hair. He rolled Sherlock onto his side, cleaned them up and threw an afghan from the couch over their prone, naked bodies, his leg over Sherlock's hips, as he burrowed against his chest, entwined his way completely in him, physically, emotionally, heart and mind. Sherlock smiled quietly, sighed peacefully as John languidly stroked the long, lanky back and murmured words of love and rest.

Bodies stilled, cooled after the heat, sated, satisfied, interwoven in the light from the fire, fingers feeling, caressing skin with the feel of moonlight and sunlight. Overhead, beyond the skies of London planetary bodies continued their long trek through the sky, unaware of life on the earth below.


	12. 12 Breath

**A/N: I thought it was time for some John abuse – lol! I haven't seriously Whumped him in awhile. I need to give huge, enormous thanks my lovely and brilliant Ennui Enigma for being a Beta/Muse (a new type of fanfic help she came up with – to go along with my new favourite word betamusing:). I couldn't have done this chapter the justice it deserved without her. Don't listen to her; she deserves a writing credit and many accolades!**

**Technical and medical information is accurate and I had amazing help with. Water rescue information is from a website. Any other mistakes blame me not EE.**

**Warnings – near death by drowning, some swearing**

**Oh yeah – guess what? It's a New Year & I still don't own! How sad!**

**Some of this was inspired by what I like to think of as my favourite Johnlock song, **_**Possession**_**, although I'm sure Sarah McLachlan never intended it this way –lol- & I have used this song in another story, but I keep going back to it! Sorry! There are words in here about needing someone to sustaining you through words & well frankly lust;) - listen to the song - it's sexy - had to take lyrics out so see if you can find the ones I mean.  
**

Breath

breath – noun – **1a.** the air taken into or expelled from the lungs. **b.** one respiration of air. **c.** an exhalation of air that can be seen, smelled, or heard. **2a.** a slight movement of air, a breeze. **b.** a whiff of perfume, etc. **3.** a whisper, a murmur (_esp_. of a scandalous nature). **4. **the power of breathing: life

Cold was the first sensation.

Wet the next.

The shock of the cold choked out what scant reserve of oxygen he had remaining in his lungs.

He couldn't struggle. His hands and feet were bound securely with rope. Any attempt to escape was futile. The depths of the river overwhelmed him, suffocating him as water saturated his airways.

_This is it. _It came to him as consciousness slipped silently away.

No thought of futility. No loss of hope. Simply a strange, peaceful sensation that cloaked and comforted him.

Surprisingly, in the last moments of consciousness, as his larynx spasmed and forced his trachea shut, protecting his lungs as long as possible, his memory travelled further than he supposed possible. This hostile, aqueous environment sent him sailing on a mind-journey to the sea he had come from, the sea of the womb - warm, life giving, and safe. From those distant shores John entered the world. Now he would die in harsher, unforgiving waters. Balance was in all things. Yin and Yang.

As blackness crept to the edges of his perception, he could distinguish familiar sounds. The _dub, dub, dub _of a boat engine, waves hitting the dock supports, and the swoosh of blood in his ears rushing to keep his body alive.

The last sound he heard before darkness bore him away in her arms was a distinct splash.

Perception faded into nothing.

oOo

Two days.

John had been missing two days and Sherlock was at the end of his tether.

John had been kidnapped off the streets in broad daylight with the crime lord's henchmen flaunting the fact in front of the CCTV cameras. Revenge. There would be no ransom demand. They had simply vanished, taking a far greater prize with them than they realized.

John's jacket had appeared, left on the front stoop for Sherlock to find, a mocking taunt. The black one, the one Sherlock loved, the one that accented John's trim figure and complimented his colouring.

It was neatly folded as if nothing was amiss. Solitary and alone.

No note. No clues. Nothing.

Then Mycroft came. An anomaly was discovered down at the docks. Lestrade and the Yard were contacted.

A car ride later, arriving as twilight began closing the daylight curtains, Sherlock was in time to see two men standing at the end of the dock. He tore toward them, closely followed by Lestrade and other officers from NSY. He grabbed the first man roughly by the coat and shook him hard, while the others swarmed the second.

"Where is he?" he practically spit in the man's face.

The other man just smirked, but his eyes travelled to the water. It was all Sherlock needed in order to deduce what had happened to John. He calculated from the position the two men had been standing on the dock the exact location that John would have been dumped into the water. Violently, he threw off his coat and shoes, disregarded all else as he dove into the Thames. Lestrade, who had spent summers as a lifeguard and knew the ins and outs of water rescue, followed him into the river.

Sherlock knew that a body thrown into water is likely to sink straight to the bottom, particularly one weighted by ropes and wrapped tightly. The mistake most rescuers make is searching too far away. He was thankful he'd made a study of watery body disposal. He tried hard not to think of dead bodies. This was John. John could not be dead.

He knew searching by sight, within the dark, murky waters, was pointless, so he engaged his other senses. There, barely audible, he heard the faint sound of water disturbed by feeble body gyrations. He kicked in that direction with arms outstretched and brushed against something solid. He reflexively grabbed and was rewarded by a handful of soggy jumper. With Lestrade's help, the two pulled John's body upward to the surface.

With the assistance of waiting officers on shore, the two men managed to haul John's motionless form up onto the dock. The ropes binding John were quickly cut and removed.

Lestrade bent over, his face hovered over John's, and looked for chest movement, assessing for any hint of breath sounds or air movement on his cheek. "He's not breathing," he shouted in alarm. "Call for an ambulance. Get me an AED. Go!" he urged the officers standing next to him.

At this announcement, Sherlock shoved Lestrade aside and collapsed on his knees next to his beloved. He tilted John's head back, brought his chin upward in an effort to open up his airway. A swift finger swipe of the mouth revealed no blocking foreign objects. "Lestrade, compressions," he shouted. The two men exchanged anxious glances. Lestrade nodded and interlaced his fingers over John's sternum. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pinched John's nostrils, placed his lips over John's, then blew, watching for the rise of John's chest, all the while he was swearing in his head. He took another breath, he blew again. His arms locked, Lestrade pressed down hard on John's sternum, compress - release - compress - release. Fast, firm, hard. He winced as he felt ribs crack underneath his hands, and apologized wordlessly to the still form. Then it was Sherlock's turn. Tilt head, breath. Breath again. Back to Lestrade. Compress, release. A rhythm. A dance of life and death between the two over John's dusky grey form. _Fuck you, breathe!_ Sherlock swore silently. _If you fucking die on me John Watson…_ He would not let himself go beyond the horror of that final thought.

oOo

_So this is what it's like being dead,_ John thought. _Interesting._He watched Sherlock and Greg work on his body. He didn't feel any physical pain.

Emotional feelings were a different matter. He really didn't want to leave this limbo he found himself within, yet he certainly didn't want to abandon Sherlock. He knew the younger man wouldn't survive without him. Not long anyway. He felt a strange sadness creep over him. He knew that if his body on the dock didn't start breathing soon, it was going to be too late.

He could almost feel the snap as invisible strings, strings that interlaced the two men together, tore apart. He knew once all the strands snapped asunder there would be no going back.

He leaned over Sherlock and whispered in his ear, "Come on, 'Lock. Don't give up! Breathe. Be my breath. I'm not ready to leave you yet."

He thought he heard Sherlock mutter in reply, "Then bloody well shut up and let me work!" John almost smiled at the familiar tone.

Just as Greg was about to put out a hand to stop Sherlock, to tell him it was too late, John felt a tug. He was slammed back into his body by an invisible, irresistible force. He woke coughing out water and gasped desperately for air. The return to agony and life.

Sherlock collapsed in relief; he wiped a shaky hand over his face and stifled a sob. Lestrade meanwhile turned John onto his side and stroked his head.

"It's alright, mate, ambulance is here. We'll get you to the hospital."

Donovan stood to the side, surprise and worry on her face. She had no idea that Freak actually felt anything akin to sentiment, but his obvious distress and now relief over John's rescue, began to shift her ideas. She knew John cared about Freak. She had seen the signs of grief when they all thought Sherlock was dead. But she had no idea that such emotions were reciprocated. She'd always believed Freak was using John, the way he used everyone else. Her thinking began to change.

John was bundled into an ambulance, but before it could speed toward the hospital, Sherlock forced his way inside. Someone grabbed a blanket for Lestrade who gratefully accepted it and wrapped his shivering form within its comforting confines. Arriving late to the scene, Mycroft offered to take the DI to his apartment so he could change. Sherlock's older brother had already sent for dry apparel for Sherlock, well aware he wouldn't leave the hospital as long as John was there.

oOo

Several hours and multiple tests later, Dr. Roth stood in John's room and explained things to Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg.

"We have taken x-rays of his lungs and done a CT scan of his brain. Other than a few fractures of the ribs that will heal on their own, everything looks okay. He's on oxygen to keep his sats up and we've started intravenous fluids as a precaution. He was fortunate you reached him as quickly as you did. The cold of the water helped too. It slowed his metabolism and decreased his oxygen needs. Your excellent resuscitation upon his retrieval from the water has reduced his chances of permanent hypoxic brain damage. We'll continue to monitor him for any signs of respiratory failure, cardiac arrhythmias, or infection in the hospital for the next 48 hours. His current condition though is stable and I'm optimistic about his prognosis. He's a very lucky man."

The doctor walked away and Greg clapped Sherlock on the back.

Sherlock ignored both his brother and the Inspector and walked to stand, hesitantly, next to John's bed, not sure what to do next, as he waded through other, different, unfamiliar waters.

The other two men looked at each other and left, giving Sherlock some much needed privacy.

John was asleep.

He quietly moved a chair over next to his bed. John looked ridiculously small in the hospital bed.

He leaned over and brushed his lips on John's forehead, enfolded John's hand in his, recognized his scent, connected it to home and love. He sat and stared for what seemed like hours. He didn't even remember when he at last crawled into the bed and fell asleep, exhausted, curled around John.

Sometime later, John woke up. He couldn't remember where he was and why. As he drew in each breath, he felt sharp, stabs of pain. The doctor in him diagnosed that there must be broken ribs.

After that it took a moment to recognize the lump on the bed beside him. The lump slept soundly. John tentatively lifted a hand and ran it through the riot of curls, smiling softly. He didn't want to disturb his partner. But Sherlock, ever a light sleeper, awoke at the first hesitant touch.

He sat up abruptly.

"John?" he croaked. He reached out a hand and it hovered over John's face and then he stroked one finger down his cheek. John smiled, pressed into the cherished hand. He felt rather than heard Sherlock's breath hitch as he stifled another sob. He felt his own breath hitch as well, in pain from the ribs and in compassion for how difficult this must be for Sherlock.

"Shh, it's alright love," and the younger man lowered his head and buried his face in the pillow John was lying on. His cries were silent. Sherlock never cried like this. It was wondrous and heartbreaking.

John continued to stroke Sherlock's head and murmured nonsense until Sherlock regained some semblance of control.

Finally, hiccuping slightly, Sherlock raised his head and smiled a watery smile.

"I thought I'd lost you."

"I know."

"If you hadn't, if I couldn't…" he hiccuped some more.

"It's okay. It will be okay," John raised a tired hand and gently removed the tears from the face before him.

"If you hadn't kept whispering in my ear…" Sherlock's voice was faint, barely audible.

John frowned, "What do you mean?"

"When you were lying there, after we pulled you out, you kept whispering in my ear to breathe for you," Sherlock blushed, knowing how insane that sounded and how he would have scoffed and sneered at the notion of John or anyone else saying such things to him. But he knew in his heart that he had heard John whispering to not give him up. And he knew, as sure as he knew the chemical formula of hydrochloric acid, that he had seen a vague shadow hovering at the corner of his vision. He could blame it on adrenalin, on lack of oxygen while performing mouth-to-mouth, but he knew John had been right beside him the entire time.

"You called me 'Lock. You only ever call me that, when, you know…" and he blushed deeper.

John chuckled softly. How on earth could a man capable of such incredible and undreamt of erotic acts between the two of them be embarrassed by a name given in the throes of passion? It was beyond John's understanding.

He continued to stroke Sherlock's face, a reflexive, comforting act for both of them and then slowly, carefully, as he ignored the pain, because they both needed it, pulled him down for an exhausted kiss.

Sherlock laid his head down next to John's and fell back asleep, listened to the inhalation and exhalation of air through a fragile set of lungs, lungs that had almost ceased their life's work today.

Meanwhile, John rested, stroked Sherlock's hair and unsuccessfully tried to remember what had happened to him on the dock.


	13. 13 Obsidian

**A/N: Sorry my friends – this was necessary and cathartic.**

**For Steve**

Obsidian

obsidian – noun – a hard, dark, glasslike volcanic rock formed by the rapid solidification of lava without crystallization

Returning to the flat had been automatic. A task completed without thought. Sitting in his chair, shoes off, feet bare, head on hand, staring, numb.

Nothing.

No thoughts.

Just…nothing.

Because thinking of something would mean remembering.

And remembering would lead down a road of self-destruction and irreparable damage.

He became aware when the light left the room.

He, again automatically, got up, and without thought made his way to the bedroom.

He stood looking down on the bed.

Their bed.

The first night without him.

He remembered the last time they shared it with perfect clarity. He remembered the desperation in their lovemaking. The underlying worry that everything was going to go wrong.

Everything had, but not in the way he had imagined. He had figured an arrest maybe. Scandal definitely. Something they could ride through. Something to be fixed.

Not this.

His brain shied away from the word death.

Such a permanent word.

He'd always hated the euphemisms 'passed on', 'demise', 'departed'.

Call it what it was. Don't pretty it up and negate it.

But now he covered up the word with darkness. He could actually see the dark in his head and the word shimmer behind, trying to grab his attention.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there.

He wasn't sure when he crawled into bed, not on his own side, but the other.

He buried his face into the pillow there.

He inhaled and tried to breathe past the enormity, represented in a lump in his throat. He tried to swallow past the feeling of grief, tried to swallow past the guilt. The guilt of the survivor. The one who had done nothing to stop the awful consequences of the jump. Who had not been able to save him.

Smell from the pillow, from the bed, triggered memories and initiated the sting of unshed tears and the unrelenting pressure building up behind his eyes.

_This is not real._

_This did not happen._

But cruel reality slammed down into his chest, leaving him unable to breathe, took what was left of his heart and squeezed it. Opened a void.

It started with a slight hitch and then a fierce gulp. A wave of utter despair and blackness engulfed him, ripped out all the moorings, swept back to sea leaving desolate wreckage behind. It was a wave, a hammer. It was only there to punish and tear any foundations that might stabilize him. It was a smothering blanket, a suffocating cloak. It did not bring comfort.

He almost wailed but stuffed the pillow into his mouth to stifle sounds, because if he really let go it would be dragged painfully from him and reverberate around the flat. It would be unending and relentless. The sound would awaken Mrs. Hudson, the neighbours and the dead.

After what seemed like a lifetime but was only moments, the crying stopped to be replaced by shudders and tremors. There was temporary relief and his face felt raw and aching.

He was exhausted by the sheer weight of the emotionality of what had happened. He closed his eyes and rocked, hoping for a distraction and the pseudo comfort of a body in motion.

He fell into a restless slumber.

While there he dreamt. He could almost make out the tall shape with the disheveled hair and the smile reserved just for him. He heard a beloved voice whisper in his ear.

_It's alright. I'm okay._

A sad smile rested on his lips and there was a slight relaxation of the muscles in his neck and shoulders. A brief respite and a moment of forgetting.

Upon awaking the next morning, truth smashed into him again and brought him to his knees as he climbed out of bed on the wrong side and a natural subconscious movement of turning to the one who was no longer there, being the doorway to that particular hell.

He collapsed in upon himself, dying sun, gathered what remained of his distraught state and wove a protective shell around himself. The once star, now a dead black hole. Light had shone from him, but light was now swallowed and nothing returned from the abyss.

The heat and love they had shared in that bed, cooled rapidly. His heart, which had been full of warmth and joy, turned brittle and hard, not like a diamond of crystallized beauty and sparkle, but black like obsidian. The reflection in the mirror-like surface was sharp and cold. There was fragility there, the instability of a weakened thing. The fragility of something that with the right blow, the perfect hit, would be shattered into a million pieces, never to be repaired.

As time slowly passed, ever the soldier, ever the man, he hid his emotions behind and in the darkness.

_Never show your feelings. Never be hurt again. Never let anyone close enough to be swallowed up by the enormity of the grief you carry._


	14. 14 Drift

**A/N: This is the last of the shorts that I had already published. This one was written in response to AlessNox' Winter Winds challenge at Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen forum. Come read our stuff! I still dedicate this chapter to Aless because her prompt inspired me & I wouldn't have written it with out it.**

**Originally I had left this story up to you to decide if it was slash or not – but of course in this version it is. I changed this version slightly due to the added definition & the inclusion of slashy elements.**

**There are 4 more chapters to this story. My writing these days is a lot more hit & miss than it was so depending on my mood & level of tiredness it maybe a bit of a wait for the next chapter. Thank you for your patience & understanding:)**

Drift

drift – noun & verb – **1a**. slow movement or variation. **b.** such movement caused by a slow current. **2.** the intention, meaning, scope, etc. of what is said (_didn't understand her drift_). **3.** a large mass of snow, sand, etc. accumulated by the wind. **4.** esp. _derogatory_ a state of inaction. **5a.** a ship's deviation from it's course, due to currents.

He walked the streets of London; cold winter winds assailed him with their icy fingers. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, tucked his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders so they came up and helped to cover his ears. The wind had managed to accumulate small piles of snow in corners and against buildings. He trudged around them, not really aware of where he was or where he was going, for the first time his wanderings were without purpose or aim, his meanderings usually taking him to predetermined destinations.

It started to snow. Huge flakes drifted down and swirled around, starting a dance as old as existence.

He paused, in his misery, to look up into the sky. Where he was standing there was not enough light from the street to interfere with the vision of velvety blackness that was a backdrop for the billions of crystal fragments as they fell from the sky. It was mesmerizing and hypnotic to watch. It was beyond beautiful. An infinite amount of snow cascading from a never-ending blackness.

He stood and closed his eyes against the vision. The snow kissed his lids, his cheeks, his lips and gathered in his hair. He remembered other kisses, kisses filled with warmth and heat, wrapped in love beyond measure.

The beauty of the night eased the pain and sadness he felt in his heart. The wonder of the night gave him hope for the first time in seven months.

He smiled a sad, soft smile.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," he whispered into the vastness of time and space. "I still miss you. I always will."

oOo

He walked the streets of a town somewhere in Afghanistan; the cold desert winds assailed him with their icy fingers. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, tucked his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders so they came up and helped to cover his ears. The wind had managed to accumulate small piles of sand in corners and against buildings. He trudged around them, not really aware of where he was or where he was going, for the first time his wanderings were without purpose or aim, his meanderings usually taking him to predetermined destinations.

The night was an inky blackness and the stars didn't so much as come out one at a time as sing their existence into the night.

He paused, in his misery, to look up onto the sky. Where he was standing there was not enough light from the street to interfere with the vision of velvety blackness that was a backdrop for the brilliant blanket of stars that covered the sky. Half remembered words came to him. _Beautiful, isn't it_? It was beyond beautiful. It was mesmerizing and hypnotic. An infinite amount of stars in a never-ending blackness.

He stood and swayed against the dizziness induced by the stars. He felt as if he drifted in a primordial sea. He remembered the feeling of falling asleep in another's arms, rocked by rhythms as old as time.

The beauty of the night lifted the pain and sadness he felt in his heart. The wonder of the night gave him hope for the first time in seven months.

He smiled a sad, hard smile.

"Happy Christmas, John," he whispered into the vastness of time and space. "I will be home soon."


	15. 15 Impact

**A/N: When I originally wrote the last chapter I wanted to do a comparison between the two men, showing how much they were connected even if they were so far apart. It has kind of influenced the set up of this chapter. I tried to make it a little different. This one is more of a comparison of two events that happen on the same day. Just to see what I could do with it. Hope you don't mind some similarities. I guess I just didn't get it out of my system yet:) The part in italics happens earlier during the same day. The part in regular type is the present.**

Impact

Impact – noun & verb – **1.** the action of one body coming forcibly into contact with another. **2.** an effect or influence, esp. when strong.

_The thud of a body as it hit the ground._

The weight of two people as they landed on the bed.

_The figure standing there had been hit by a force, whose hand reached up, instinctively, to cradle and protect the back of his head from the effect of impacting with the ground._

John had been tackled by Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around the shorter man in what amounted to a bear hug. There was a wicked smile and a certain gleam in the Sherlock's eyes as he took John by surprise.

_The sound of the gun had disappeared in the sound of the body hitting the ground._

In hitting the bed all other sounds were muted, except for the surprised exclamation that left John's lips.

_He wasn't exactly sure what had happened as he suddenly found himself looking up at the sky rather than at the man holding the gun. It took his brain a few microseconds to realize the man they'd been trailing had indeed shot at him, something he'd been prepared for, but for some reason still took him by surprise. He had been thinking of his doctor._

John knew precisely what had hit him. 6'1'' of lanky detective. The case was closed. Their phones were shut off and in the other room. Sherlock had even had something to eat, earlier.

_The reason why he wasn't dead was due to the fact that a smaller object had crashed into him sending him hurtling to the ground. His breath had puffed out of him with the impact of the smaller body and from the force of striking the ground. It took him another few microseconds – an exceedingly long time for someone like him – to realize the object/body that had pushed him down and out of the way was his other half._

John was anticipating an evening such as this. It took him no time at all to be aroused by the other man's…enthusiasm.

_He was always there and always ensuring his safety._

_He didn't think it strange that his first thoughts weren't of the man they were following but of his other. There was appropriateness in thinking of him first. His other had changed everything about how he viewed someone, another beside himself. He did notice on a peripheral level that Lestrade was busy forcing the shooter to the ground._

John was once again awed by the way Sherlock could set aside his usual 'me first' attitude when they were in bed. Outside of this haven, there were still instances of snarkiness and a self-centered personality, there always would be to some degree. It was part of who Sherlock was. But in the bedroom it was a balanced relationship. There was give and take, pleasure received and reciprocated. More of an equal footing.

"_Are you alright?" the smaller man breathed as he sat up a bit and quickly assessed his partner, running his capable doctor's hands carefully over the detective's body, checking for hidden injuries._

John shuddered as Sherlock ran his long musician's fingers over John's chest. He felt his skin tingling in the wake of those long fingers and sensitive hands. Anticipation was building with an urgent heat in his groin. Sherlock's face revealed that look he would get when whatever he was regarding fascinated him, with complete attention and obsession, almost as if he didn't commit it to his memory, it would disappear.

_The doctor's face divulged intense relief as he concluded that his partner had suffered no lasting effects from his tumble to the ground. He lowered his head until he was leaning it on the detective's chest, waiting until his breathing slowed and he could contain the anger coursing through him as he remembered how the detective had once again acted foolishly and put his life needlessly on the line._

He could hear the shift in Sherlock's breathing as John exchanged touches, caresses and strokes. Intense feelings flowed through both their bodies. He drank in the sight of emotions beginning to overwhelm Sherlock, as he began to become unguarded, in the one place, with the one person, he could let go and feel totally uninhibited.

"Please."

John had been waiting for this whispered entreaty.

"_You Idiot! You did it again! Don't you ever think about safety?" His other was yelling at him. He didn't like it when he was yelled at._

"Oh John!" The way Sherlock breathed his name. "You're killing me! What are you doing to me? Oh god, yes!" His reaction to what John was doing left John shaking with an unrestrained desire, Sherlock's responses impacted his own.

_The detective looked at the doctor quizzically. "You realize that statement is untrue? I always think about safety."_

_The other sputtered a vehement denial and the detective reached up and laid a hand across his mouth, stopping his outburst. The hand couldn't cover the accusations that were thrown from his doctor's eyes, as he raged silently at his detective "Let me rephrase. I always think about your safety. That's why I was standing where I was. So the man we were following would come after me. Not you." _

_The doctor's eyes widen as the significance of this statement reached through his jumble of emotions._

John locked eyes with Sherlock, telling him with just a glance how much Sherlock was loved, how essential he was, how much he had changed the course of John's life.

_The detective looked, really looked at his other and tried his damnedest to tell him, without words, how much he meant, how much he was influenced by him, the reverberations of which were far reaching and significant. His doctor had changed the course of his life, all for the better._

John saw the moment in Sherlock's eyes where he tipped over the edge, jumped off the cliff and became totally committed to both the act and the need for love of John. It always occurred at this instant, where Sherlock could let go, the point where it touched the center of his soul and shone through his eyes. Any other time there was some part held back, guarded, protected. Not during this. It was when the two fused into one being, no longer unsure and hesitant, no longer able to consider themselves two separate entities but united and joined.

_Something in the doctor's expression changed as he seem to realize that his partner may not always put him first in the business of everyday possibilities, but he would be first in the important facets of this life. The detective reached a tentative hand forward and brushed the fringe out of his doctor's eyes. "You need a hair cut," he said matter-of-factly. The doctor started to giggle, that insanely incongruous, but just about bloody perfect giggle, that always seemed a touch out of place with his otherwise serious persona. An answering chuckled rumbled through the taller man's long body. The two lay there longer than most would consider seemly, not particularly caring about the picture it made, delighted that they were both still existing and in one piece._

John waited until that moment and entered into Sherlock, moving together, joining bodies, fingers entwined. Combined, an amalgam, a fusion, an ouroboros of aching need and reverence. Never ending, a continuum.

They came as one and completed the cycle. John collapsed across Sherlock's chest, refusing to relinquish his hold of his love's hand, his breathing beginning to return to a normal rhythm. After a time he lifted his head and looked at Sherlock, lying there. His eyes were closed as he returned from wherever he had journeyed to this time, a small, sweet smile playing at the corner of his mouth. John tentatively touched his fingers to Sherlock's lips with his free hand and drank in the sight before him; a wonderfully, awful pain in his heart rose up and threatened to consume him.

Sherlock blinked and came back to John. He lifted a shaky hand, cradled John's head and pulled him down for a slow, lazy, sated kiss. John groaned in surrender, knowing he could never possibly feel as complete as he did at that moment. This was what he was meant to be.

This was the reason for existing.


	16. 16 Enigma

**A/N: I must thank Ennui Enigma once again. She gave me the word and the inspiration for this chapter.**

Enigma

enigma – noun – **1a.** a puzzling, perplexing or unexplained thing. **b.** a person who baffles others' conjecture as to his or her character, identity, etc. **2a.** riddle or paradox, usu. involving metaphor.

_Could be dangerous._

That was the phrase he had used.

The phrase that was the lure to bring John to him.

Like a moth to a flame.

Irresistibly and perilously attracted to the rush of excitement and stimulation.

How someone as morally centred and upright could be brought around and enticed by three words, it was so intriguing, so…puzzling.

And there was nothing more perfect, more wonderful than a puzzle.

He lay in the dark, silent living room. The heavy curtains were pulled tight, even the light from the street failed to wend its way in, failed to distract him from his thoughts. He had excellent and exceptional night vision so if needed he would be able to navigate through the flat & find his way with his usual grace.

It wasn't necessary as he wasn't planning on moving anywhere for a while.

He was contemplating the fact that he could so easily read what John had needed earlier, when he asked him, enticed him to come back to Baker Street. Knew without hesitation or thought that John would thrive on danger.

So how was it he had not known how exhilaratingly intriguing Watson was?

Despite the seemingly quiet and introspective person he was on the outside, which clearly wasn't a shell or a mask. It was as truthful a reflection of who the doctor was, as truthful as the thrill seeking, adrenalin junkie who had traversed the rooftops with him. Someone who was polar opposite in his personalities, yet thoroughly grounded in both natures. Not one to shout out about his abilities or talents, but who stayed unobtrusive and still.

One who was endlessly fascinating and extraordinarily talented and unstoppably moral.

He had thought John was an open book, thought he would be so easy to read, so easy to manipulate. There were hidden secrets inside that book. Clues and treasure maps and indexes of information leading to more questions and lovely surprises.

The good doctor had taken the life of another, unwaveringly, to save his life, a life most would consider a waste of space; even his family members were not overly enthusiastic about having him around.

If he had died tonight, Mycroft might have retaliated in revenge, upholding the family honour and all, but would he have mourned his demise? Unlikely. Sherlock was a different kind of conundrum than the one sleeping fairly peacefully above.

He thought about how after, after calmly and methodically killing a man who was prepared to kill what amounted to a near stranger to the doctor, they had sat together eating Chinese and swapping stories.

Amusing, balanced, ethical, moderately intelligent, contradictory. Crack shot, wounded in body and spirit. Doctor and soldier.

Sherlock felt unnaturally comfortable with someone he knew little more than 48 hours. That was another intriguing paradox.

Sherlock did not feel comfortable with many people, certainly not with ones he had just met.

He lay there all the rest of the night, thinking about what other astonishments Dr. John Watson had in store. He was caught unaware by the sound of footsteps on the stairs as John made his way down to the living room. There was a pause at the door.

"Did you sit up all night?" asked the soft, yet cheerful voice of the other man. "Don't you sleep?"

"Sleeping is dull," retorted Sherlock. _Especially when you have brilliant mysteries to muse upon._

John chuckled quietly.

"What?"

"I was just thinking. I've never met someone as much of a perplexity as you, Sherlock. Tea?"

"Please."


	17. 17 Stardust

**A/N: This was one of those chapters that I have had written in my head since the beginning of this story. This and the next one. I could not have written this with out the magnificent Ennui Enigma and the lovely johnsarmylady. There is an additional note at the end.**

Stardust

Stardust – noun -1 a romantic, mystical look or sensation. 2 a multitude of stars looking like dust.

"_I shall dream of moon and stars and suns in orbit around each other in a great cosmic pool of celestial light." Ennui Enigma_

Positioned on a rolling hill in the Sussex Downs, was a rather shabby blanket, perfect for sitting on damp, midnight grass, and as it was an old shabby blanket it didn't matter if it ended up covered in dirt or grass or damp or other things.

Two men were in the presence of a splendidly glorious night sky that stretched out from horizon to horizon. A sea of stars covered the ceiling of the world, endless, countless, multitude. No other lights nearby, even the little cottage they'd rented for their holiday was tucked behind the hill and the lamp light glow from the windows was hidden.

One man, shorter, older, was sitting on the blanket, knees up, hugged tight, as he drank in the wonder and thrill of the sight above him, an almost painful delight filled him, left him breathless and wanting. The other stood a ways off, looking out into the darkness, contemplating a different sort of wonder. The wonder of his feelings for the other man.

"Sherlock? Come sit with me. This is the most beautiful sight. I haven't seen skies like this since Afghanistan. There are so many stars it's like a piece of the sky's been torn out and you can see heaven," Sherlock could hear the thrill in John's voice.

Sherlock refrained from making a scoffing sound. He held John's feelings too tightly wrapped in his own, precious and treasured, to snark at him about the existence of heaven. His head swiveled to take in the barely perceptible shape on the hill. He then turned his head and looked up at the marvel above him. He was reminded of another night, years ago, with a similar vista above him.

He glanced back at the man on the blanket and walked toward him. As he came closer he could discern a smile on the face of his beloved. Closer still and he could see cold starlight hidden in the warm fathomless depths of John's eyes. Starlight reflected from above, starlight swimming in the ocean blue of his eyes. John held out a hand to his partner. Taking it in his, he sat down, stiffly, mindful of an ache in his knee that would never entirely disappear, knee damaged by the unhealthy attentions of a suspect. John refused to relinquish the hand.

"Knee bothering you?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded abruptly. John chuckled, knowing Sherlock didn't like to be reminded of his human frailties even after all of these years. It was good to be able to laugh at something that at the time had been a near tragedy and had almost taken Sherlock away from him.

"I am sure my knee is still in better shape and more able to with stand the damp than your shoulder," the taller man huffed. John continued to grin, Sherlock's testiness a familiar cloak and both were comfortable with the weight and heft of it.

John also knew the knee wasn't the really reason for Sherlock's mood. Something had been bothering him all day.

John brought Sherlock's captured hand to his mouth and kissed the back.

"What's wrong love?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. John watched him gather his thoughts, waited patiently. He knew whatever it was, the detective still had to come to grips with it. Even now he continued to have difficulties expressing anything on the emotional level.

Sherlock leaned back upon one elbow, his long legs stretched out before him, head back, eyes full of stars.

"Why do you love me?" there was an almost wistful tone to his voice. John wasn't ever surprised by the nature of questions such as these. Even after all of these years and all they had been through and all they meant to each other, there was a hidden part of Sherlock, which seemed to believe he wasn't worthy of John's love and devotion. John's heart ached for Sherlock because he still felt this way about himself but he addressed it as honestly as he did every thing else with how he felt, what he knew to be true.

"Can't help it. We were meant for each other."

Sherlock glanced at John, frowning, He felt like that was a rather dismissive answer for someone like John.

"That is your response?" there was an edge of hurt to Sherlock's voice.

John bent back so he was on level with Sherlock's head. His eyes automatically fell to the detective's perfect full mouth. Sherlock turned his head toward his loadstone, drawn there simply because John was staring at him.

"We are made of stardust, Sherlock. We are meant for each other."

"If you are referring to everything that exists, every atom, having been made from exploded stars, then yes, I suppose, but I don't understand how you can derive 'we are meant for each other' from that."

"You know what I think?"

Sherlock smirked, "Usually."

John rolled his eyes, "Yes, your magnificence. You are right, intrinsically. I think that we are all part of the cosmos, all part of exploded stars, atoms, cells, what have you, but you know, deeper than that."

"Deeper than atoms?"

"On a transcendent level, yes. Think about it. We are all made up of stardust and different parts are made up of different stars, like my left hand from my right, but let's say that the atoms of my hand," and he let go of Sherlock's hand and raised it up so it was visible, "are made up of the same atoms from the same star that are present in your hip." He firmly placed his hand on Sherlock's hip and moved it back and forth across it. "Perhaps that's why I am so madly attracted to you, just some of my atoms trying to join up with some of yours. You know, like they are longing to connect again." He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Sherlock's. "We were meant to be together. It was written in the stars."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You have no proof for that supposition."

"I don't need proof. It's what I believe."

"You have no proof for your beliefs."

"That isn't the point of belief, Sherlock," John said mildly. "It's internal and immeasurable."

Sherlock simply nodded, knowing he wouldn't win this particular argument. He had mellowed somewhat in the area of John's quasi-religious beliefs.

He looked back up at the sky, his thumb rubbing the back of John's hand, the warmth from that hand seeping into his hip.

"You know they are dead," he said pragmatically.

John, nonplussed, was actually momentarily tempted to glance around, looking for hidden bodies upon the hill. He shook his head, "Who?"

Sherlock sighed, "Not who, John," he chided softly, not concerned in the least that John failed to follow his thoughts. He waved his hand toward the sky. "The stars. They are dead, they exploded and died billions of years before we were born."

John quirked a smile and stared into his eyes, as equally a pleasant piece of anatomy as his lips. "Well. They may have died billions of years ago but they still live within us today."

Sherlock looked back up at the sky. "When I was…away there was a night, in Afghanistan, when I stood looking at the stars and I was reminded of the time we were searching for the Golem. I had mentioned how beautiful the stars were. You were surprised that I would notice them. This one night I could hear you in my head and I could see the stars as you would see them. They were beautiful as they are beautiful now. It filled me with a sense of wonder and hope. A sense of being filled with…something. It helped me complete the task and come home to you that much sooner." He squeezed John's hand, acknowledged what they both knew, how hard it was for John to talk about that time, for even now it caused an uneasy sensation in his chest, a feeling of loneliness that would never entirely be erased, a shudder of a cold finger down his back as if Sherlock were tempting fate every time he said it, as if death knew he'd escaped and would return for him someday. John shook his head to clear the fancies for the moment.

"So I guess you are not far off, John. We are connected, something I am sure you have realized for years and now is just dawning on me. When it comes to matters of the heart I am, ever, your pupil." He smiled his heartbreaking smile at his partner, the one reserved just for him. John brushed the loose curls out of Sherlock's eyes, once dark now gradually turning white.

"John," Sherlock's voice held a hint of nervousness, finally coming to the crux of the problem, "The reason I am asking you this, the reason why I want to know why you love me is I'm thinking about retiring."

John sat up a little. "Really?' he asked attempting to keep his voice neutral, not wanting to panic the other man. But Sherlock heard the tremor of hope present in John's inquiry.

And Sherlock smiled, a smile full of relief. "You'd be okay with that?"

John laughed, a boyish laugh, one that turned back time for a moment, "Okay with it? God yes! I thought you'd never retire. And I'd be back to hobbling after you with a cane. Please tell me you are serious?"

Sherlock looked faintly bemused at John's enthusiastic response. "But won't you miss the rush of adrenalin?"

John's laugh deepened, "Not at my age! Sherlock, I want to spend time with you, do things with you and," he deepened his voice and made his eyebrows wiggle up and down in what was apparently suppose to be a lascivious manner, "do things to you." He turned serious again for a moment, "I want to grow old with you and I think if we continue our lifestyle on the streets of London, that may not happen. I want to have time with you and not miss out on opportunities. I don't want regrets. I came close to losing you once more when that lunatic tried to beat you to death. I don't think I can live through that anymore. I want us to have time together."

"I was worried you wouldn't want to stay with me if I didn't continue to provide you with excitement."

John felt as if his heart would burst out of his chest. "I love you, you idiot because you are you and because you give me enough excitement just by touching me and looking at me and loving me. As much as you may wish to deny it, I know you do love me. Who would ever believe you could convince anyone you were a sociopath." John rolled over until he was lying across Sherlock, mindful of his knee. He linked his fingers into the thick curls and pressed down upon Sherlock's mouth, telling him, showing him, without words how much he loved him, how much he wanted to be with him. He broke free after a few minutes, and said in a voice gone slightly husky with desire, "I know for a fact that the cottage where we are staying is for sale. The couple we rented from mentioned it when I talked with them."

Sherlock lifted a still graceful eyebrow. "This is an ideal location."

John quirked his head to the side, "Ideal for what?'

"Keeping bees." He paused. "And star gazing." His smile returned full-blown.

John chuckled and leaned back down to Sherlock's mouth, prepared to capture it back in his. Before he did he whispered, "I don't think we are going to watch too many more stars tonight, do you?"

"I think we will be sore and stiff in the morning if we stay all night."

"I'll make it worth your while," John grinned. "How does that sound?"

Sherlock answered by lifting his head and meeting John half way.

The night slipped by with no one, but the stars, the wiser.

**A/N: First of all I am so delighted with the response this story has received. I have never had so many reviews for a story. I am so happy! This one has a lot of me written into it and is very personal, so it fills my heart that you love it as well.**

**There is one more chapter. A finale, but it is a true finale for the characters in this. I wanted to come full circle when I set out to write this. I understand that that type of ending isn't for everyone, so if you wish to stop here, I will understand. It is my hope that you will continue to the end because it is connected, but in case you don't I am going to thank all who have favoured, followed and reviewed at this time. I will add anyone new to the next chapter. Please forgive me if I missed anyone or if I messed up your name!**

**Ennui Enigma, johnsarmylady, patemalah21,thedragonaunt, junejuly15, mrspencil, TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot, SassyVeeDub, SniperKingSogeKing0341, DuShuZhi, hjohn302, Old Ping Hai, ThisDayWillPass, star-chan89, metaphore519, Burnedoutpixels, damson1, Purple Roses and Stormy Nights, Moriarty is King, Imutaski, faultierqueen, arelando. Artimis Fairy, AmeliaGarrett, emmet the pimp, Lunar-Sol-42, sick-athxxheart, Joyfull Scroll, beargirl1393, awelch, richardfeynman, Gracie Emz. Ryogun, Dirty Pony Trick, Rue Dumaine, InterestingName, Porkii, emeralds, Tomy-chan22, moonstones42, Miia90, A.F. Wolfslinx, AllyxG, subtleintuition, Stormy Grey Skies, annamore, 4 pips, kikoanna, geekygirlmk325, brightlydull, anthonybri16, ihavenoface, MidnightRhymer, darknesslove124, Jennamatic3000, RagnhildK, R. Harper, Raidermae, JR Granger**

**There are lots of other people out there who have followed or favourited me as an author. I thank you all as well – it's difficult to know sometimes why you have done so whether for this work or for others, but I treasure each and every one of you for taking the time to read my story!**


	18. 18 Finale

**A/N: Thanks to GhostTari, Vaden28, Raven Banesidhe for joining the party!**

**As promised and warned this is the last chapter. This has been such a wonderful experience! Thanks!**

**Last time – for Steve.**

Finale

When John was younger, in the quiet moments before bed, his mother would read to him and his sister, everything and anything. Tales of knights and pirates, tales from around the world, fairy tales. But out of all the countless forgotten stories, there was one that he remembered, one he held onto in the silent spaces between waking and dreaming. One he carried in his heart.

The story was about an old man and an old woman who had been married forever. One of the gods, Zeus, he thought, or maybe Hera, or maybe both, decided to visit them and test their faith, their faith to the gods and to each other. The couple welcomed the god into their home, honoured the stranger by offering to share their meager meal and blessed the god. As the god left he or she revealed themselves and in the face of their love and devotion for each other and for the gods, they were granted a favour. The old couple asked that they die together. They loved each other too much to ever be separated. They lived out their days in peace and adoration and one day while walking hand in hand, at the same exact moment, they were both turned into trees, growing by the side of the road. Branches entwined as their fingers had been, still holding on to one another.

This story stayed with John because it was purely about the love the two had for each other. It was something he thought about when looking for a relationship in later years. _Is this the person I would want to ask the gods to be with to the end of my days? Do I love them enough to want to die with them?_

Up until the moment he began the best part of his relationship with Sherlock, the answer would have been _No_ or _Maybe_. When he fell hard and landed at Sherlock's feet, the answer was a _Yes_, without limits or hesitation. Even if that story wasn't at the forefront of his mind, he knew that Sherlock was the one. The one he'd give up everything for and be with forever.

Life doesn't happen that way as much as you might wish, as much as you promise, as much as you beg when your partner lays dying or dead.

Sherlock died on a beautiful fall day. Walking back from his bees, checking to make sure all was well before winter. John was watching for him out of the kitchen window. They were both moving a little slower these days, they were both full of the aches and pains and reminders of a harsher life. They were both still madly in love. And in spite of age or limitation and the fact that lust was slower to kindle, they still worshipped each other in every way.

When he didn't return at his usual time, John, feeling his heart constrict, walked in the direction Sherlock was sure to be.

He found him.

Lying there. Peacefully. Looking as if he had just stopped, sat down against a tree and fell asleep.

Heart attack most likely.

John's neighbour found them both, Sherlock dead, John with his arms wrapped around him, silent tears tracking down his face, while he quietly begged him not to go, not to leave him again, to disappear some place he couldn't follow. The neighbour phoned around, took care of things for him, called Molly and she came with her daughter. With Greg, having passed a few years back, Molly was the best possible person for John to be with right now, as she had faced the loneliness and heartbreak that was John's lot for a second time. But there would be no miracle.

Arrangements were made, a memorial held, Sherlock's ashes scattered near his beloved bees. Life returned to those who were living, friends drifted away and except for weekly calls from Molly, John was left alone, with grief so palpable he could have painted with it.

Alone and idling sadly through his life once more.

He sat the last night, dozing in his chair. He was thinner. All of his hair grey; no glimmers of blond wisps had been seen for some time. His heart was heavy and his sleep troubled and it was much more difficult to care than it had been before.

He awoke to the sound of a log as it shifted in the fire. He remembered all over again, the continuous shaft of pain pierced his heart.

He sat back, sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face.

He silently pleaded to the gods to let him go.

Eyes closed, beginning to doze again when he heard another, different, heartrending, cherished sound.

A voice.

_His_ voice. Deep, rich, with the taste of chocolate and smoke.

_John._

He looked up.

There was a faint sparkle; a flicker of light reflected from somewhere, playing on Sherlock's chair. He frowned but really he couldn't be bothered with it, didn't want to figure out the reason why he was hallucinating.

He drifted again.

_John!_

More insistent this time.

That old familiar impatience from their early days.

_Come John._

John looked around the room, puzzled.

A heavy sigh from the direction of the chair.

_John, do keep up! _ In that manner John loved and hated in equal measure.

The 'John, why do I put up with idiots?' voice.

_Except you, John_ came the voice, as clear as if Sherlock were in the room. _You were always the light to my shadow._

John narrowed his eyes and looked, really looked, between the layers of dust and time at the flicker.

And his heart stammered and his breath caught.

For there _he _was, half crouched on his chair, hair dark, white shirt, tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up and that shit eating, goddamn, cocky grin of his. That grin full of 'I am so much smarter than the rest you'.

But his eyes full of love and warmth and laughter.

All directed at John, to John, through John, illuminating his very soul.

_Sorry I had to leave ahead of you. Pressing matters to attend to, but if you're ready? _

And he held out his hand to his John.

_His_ John. Always and forever more. Completely and Absolutely.

And John grabbed it, fingers entwined like the branches of two trees standing side by side on the road.

At first it was if a great weight held him down, a crushing weight that began to dissipate the longer Sherlock looked at him. And then he sensed the tethers holding him here snap and he felt lighter, younger.

_Have you caught your breath?_ he asked.

And John smiled that wild, devil may care smile and he felt a giggle boiling up in his chest. _Ready when you are._

He half glanced around as if he'd left something behind, but there was nothing, _nothing_ better or more perfect than Sherlock. And then with Sherlock eternally leading the way, the two of them stepped between time and out of memory and into the infinity of space. They faded into starlight, the dust remaining, as eloquent as it ever was.


End file.
